Deadlock (17 page)

'Beck can wait. And you can bet on one thing. He'll be back. At the moment we have other fish to fry. Alain Charvet.'

'Where are we meeting him?'

'His favourite rendezvous. The Brasserie Hollandaise in the Place de la Poste. It's old-fashioned and rather nice. Let me do the talking.'

La Brasserie Hollandaise was almost empty at four in the afternoon. Paula looked round the large room and thought it very Dutch. A quarry-tiled floor, the windows screened by heavy lace curtains, leather banquettes along the walls topped with brass rails. The place was illuminated by large milky globes. Tweed walked towards a corner banquette where a thin-faced man in his early forties sat nursing a beer.

'Alain Charvet,' he introduced. 'This is my new assistant, Paula Grey.'

Charvet stood up, formally shook her hand, his eyes staring straight at hers. Yes, she thought, you'll know me should we meet again. They sat down, Tweed ordered coffee for two, and handed an envelope to Charvet containing a one-thousand franc note.

'Is anything happening? You can talk freely in front of Paula. Fully vetted.'

'What are you looking for?' asked Charvet. 'Not like you to be so vague.'

'I don't really know,' Tweed admitted, heard himself say the words and inwardly cursed the futility of this enterprise. 'Even rumours might help,' he added.

'Rumours are all I have. You know I keep in touch with my friends in France. They keep mumbling about rumours of some huge operation being mounted. Sometimes it's about the hijacking of a ship. I ask you! Then they refer to someone nicknamed The Recruiter. All hot air.'

He was speaking French. Paula was fascinated by the way he used the language. So different from Parisians -but it was said the most perfect French was spoken by the Genevoises. Charvet made a quick gesture as he went on.

'As for this country, there was the big gold bullion robbery two months ago in Basle. Two banks in one night. They got away with twelve million francs of gold.'

Twelve million. Paula did a quick calculation in her head. Over four million pounds. She sensed Tweed's awakening interest as he leaned forward closer to Charvet.

'Both banks in Basle, you mean?'

'Yes. You know the city, of course. They were both near the Bankverein tram stop on the way to the railway station. No clue as to how they moved the gold, but the police have called the robbers The Russian Gang.'

Tweed sat drinking his coffee, absorbing the information. He had a faraway look Monica would have recognized. He was trying to link up this new development with the meagre data he already possessed.

'Why The Russian Gang?' he asked eventually.

'It was the UTS lot, which is surprising. Load of cranks.'

'You mean the Free Ukraine movement?' Paula asked. 'Those pathetic people who were born in the Ukrainian Republic and escaped to the West. They still believe that one day they can bring about a Free Ukraine state -independent of Russia. Mostly they operate out of Munich, pursuing their dream.'

'Yes.' Charvet looked surprised, addressing Tweed. 'Miss Grey has a lot inside her head. Most people have never even heard of the UTS.'

'How do the police know?' Tweed asked.

'One of them was dragged out of the Rhine shortly after the robbery, his throat slit from ear to ear. He carried papers which soon led Arthur Beck to Munich - to identifying him. Presumably they organized the bullion theft to finance their activities.'

'Presumably . . .' Tweed had drifted off into another bout of silence. 'I don't think it's what I'm looking for,' he said eventually.

'Of course not,' Charvet replied. 'I'm just reporting whatever comes to mind. I know I'm not being very helpful.'

'That man your French friends have nicknamed The Recruiter. I don't understand why?'

'Oh, he's supposed to be paying out huge sums to build a team of villains - top specialists in their fields. No one tells me anything specific. You have to realize some of my contacts do spread pure gossip rather than say they have nothing.'

'And that's it?'

'I am very much afraid so.' Charvet peered inside the envelope Tweed had given him. 'This is far too much for rubbishy gossip.'

'Keep it,' Tweed said as he stood up. 'On account of another day.'

'I'msorry,' Paula apologized as they made their way across the footbridge in the dusk. 'It must have sounded as though I was showing off when I babbled on about the UTS.'

'Quite the opposite. Charvet was impressed. That's good. One day I may want you to come and see him if I'm tied up. Now he will talk to you. And he will never let another soul know you exist.'

'Was it all a waste of time?'

'I think so. Charvet makes his living dealing with facts. He has a reputation to keep. That's why he kept emphasizing he was passing on rumours - gossip.'

'What about this gold bullion robbery in Basle? You did seem intrigued by that news. It's the first I've heard of it.'

'Me too. But the Swiss won't want to broadcast a thing like that. Their banks have a reputation for being the safest in the world. One thing puzzles me. Brr! It's getting chilly. I'll be glad to get back inside the hotel.'

'And what puzzles you?'

'That a ramshackle outfit like the UTS could organize not one - but two - successful robberies. And from Swiss banks!'

'What's the answer?'

'No idea. Here we are. Let's dive inside. Come along to my room when you're ready. We'll talk about it a bit more.'

Tweed had taken off his lightweight Burberry, wishing he'd worn a heavier coat, had a quick wash, when he decided to call Charvet at his apartment.

'Alain, Tweed here again. That chap, The Recruiter, does this character have a name?'

'More like a ghost than a real person. It's all gossip like I told you . . .'

'But does he have a name? It is a man, I assume?'

'So the grapevine says. Which is about all it does say. And yes they do toss around a name. Common enough in a number of countries. It's Klein.'

16

Klein was the first passenger to get off the train at Basle. He hurried to the French station, which is attached to the main station. A curious city, Basle. Three countries meet here - Switzerland, France and Germany. Only a short train ride away is Basle Bad Bahnhof, the German station.

He used French francs to buy a single first-class ticket to Brussels. The express was waiting and he settled himself in an empty compartment. As the train began to move through the night he checked over in his mind a list of the tasks he had accomplished.

Timers. They were on their way aboard the Nestle truck bound for Larochette. By using trains Klein would arrive there before the truck. Gaston Blanc had been eliminated.

And no one could connect Klein with that episode. He had bought a single ticket from Geneva to Basle. Now he was travelling with another single ticket to Brussels. That severed the link with Switzerland.

But the day's work was not yet finished. There was still the problem of the Turkish driver bringing the timers. A problem he would solve soon. Klein settled back to sleep. He had an alarm clock inside his head, could always wake before he reached his destination . . .

Fifteen minutes before the express arrived at Luxembourg City, Klein woke, checked his watch. He extracted from his case a small slim black box, shoved it in his pocket and made for the toilet. He seemed to spend half his life inside lavatories he thought with macabre humour as he opened the box.

Among other articles in separate compartments in the velvet-lined box were a tube of foundation cream, a container of light-coloured face powder, cotton wool and a small brush. He worked quickly, rubbing into his face a little of the foundation cream with his fingers. He then applied some of the powder, brushing off the surplus with the complexion brush. He studied the effect in the mirror.

That make-up girl in the closed city of Gorky had taught him a thing or two. 'Most people don't realize,' she had said, 'that a man's complexion - especially someone with a high colour like yours - is one of their most distinguishing features.' Mind you, later he had taught her a thing or two stretched out on the leather couch.

The stark white image stared back at him. It gave him a somewhat sinister appearance. Intimidating. Satisfied, he racked his equipment back inside the box and returned to his compartment after taking a pee.

Again he was the first passenger off the express when it rolled into Luxembourg City. The Volvo station wagon was parked outside the station where Hipper had left it earlier, taking a cab back to Larochette.

Klein unlocked the car with the key Hipper had provided, slid behind the wheel, inserted the ignition key and drove off. Reaching the turn-off from the main highway, he pressed his foot down. Klein moved along the crag-walled winding road at even higher speed than Hipper had driven. Louis Chabot would have been terrified.

It was close to midnight when Louis Chabot returned from his walk through the deserted village and along the winding gorge where, Hipper had told him, the old railway had once run. My God, it was good to get away from that mausoleum, La Montagne. From the rooms with furniture covered with sheets. Only the kitchen was modern and in use.

He heard the car coming from the same direction he had been driven and stepped back inside a narrow alley. The Volvo braked suddenly, swerved into the drive in front of the hotel, sending up a shower of pebbles.

'Bloody maniac,' Chabot growled.

He remained hidden as the driver got out after dousing his lights. The figure was no more than a pale silhouette in the shadows as he disappeared round the side to the rear entrance. Chabot decided to wait, lit a Gauloise. He was good at waiting. Sometimes he'd had to wait hours for the target he'd been commissioned to kill.

He might learn something. Which was more than he ever would from that Hipper who was as informative as a wooden Indian. Half an hour later the Nestle truck arrived, pulled in by the side of La Montagne. Chabot went on waiting. There were some things it might be better not to know. And Hipper
had
let slip a cargo of timers was expected.

Klein was amiable with the Turkish driver after he had handed over the case containing the timers. He poured him a glass of red wine in the kitchen, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent tube, then perched his buttocks on a table as he chatted to the driver in French.

'You are heading for Brussels now, I understand?'

'Yes . . .'

The greasy-haired, swarthy-complexioned Turk's command of the language was limited. Klein spoke slowly, kept it simple.

There's been a landslide of rocks on the direct route. I will take you to Clervaux.' He produced a map folded to the right section, showed the driver. 'From there you can drive on to Brussels. You will never find the way on your own - at night it is easy to get lost in the Ardennes.'

'How you get back - from this Clervaux?'

'Easy. My friend here will follow in his car and bring me back. After I have taken you through the difficult bit.'

'You make me pay money for this?'

'God, no! The consignment of drugs you have brought is so important I am glad to see you safely on your way.'

A more intelligent mind might have wondered why such dangerous information had been revealed. But Klein had judged his man well. The Turk's Swiss work permit expired in two months and would not be renewed. He didn't worry about that. He'd be glad to get back to his family, to his wife, in the village a few kilometres outside Ankara.

He had saved a lot of money, sending it back home. But never before had he received so much for one simple job - a thousand-franc note. He had never even seen one before. He readily agreed to Klein's suggestion. He was standing up, finishing off his glass of red wine when Klein bumped against him, spilling wine down the Turk's front.

'I am so sorry . . .'

'It is nothing. Should we go now?'

Klein led the way to the truck, climbing up into the cab on the driver's side behind the wheel. The Turk stood looking up with a puzzled expression as Hipper ran to the Volvo.

'Get in the passenger seat,' Klein called down. 'I know the way. There are few signposts this side of Clervaux.'

The Turk shrugged, walked round the front and joined Klein. As the truck came out of the drive, heading away from Luxembourg City, followed by the Volvo, Chabot watched from inside his alley.